


my precious disguise

by olwin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fix-It, Lust, Pining, Pseudo-Incest, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-21 04:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11936793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olwin/pseuds/olwin
Summary: Post 7x07. Jon returns North with the Queen of Dragons. He must make this woman happy if he wants his people to be protected. But someone at Winterfell is making this job very difficult. Feelings he has never acknowledged come to the surface. Yet, duty must always come first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> um hi, hello. i admit i made an account just so i can rewrite this rather uninspired season's ending (because i really need it for myself). i subscribe to the theory that jon is playing a double game and trying to appease dany, but i don't think he's being a master manipulator, or anything. he's just doing the best he can, knowing full well that the fate of his people and the world rests on this woman's shoulders. however, his true connection to sansa shines through the subterfuge and makes things very difficult for him. i should note that in this fic he doesn't yet know he has un-brotherly feelings for her and the same goes for sansa; but they become aware of the underlying tension when they're reunited at winterfell. aaanyway, thank you for bearing with me and i hope you enjoy.

 

“Why are you anxious, my love?”

 _My love._ She has not called him that before.

Jon swallows thickly, staring at her face in the shadow. They are lying together in bed and his arm is around her shoulders, cradling her to him. Her body is chilled after their love-making. He almost expected her to be as warm as a dragon. But she is not. He tries his best to appear content.

“Oh…just the fact that the world’s going to end unless we stop it.”

She smiles sadly. “There’s more than that troubling you. I think I know you by now.”

Jon hopes she doesn’t know him _too_ well, because if she did, she would see his numerous doubts and rapidly change her tune. 

“I’m concerned about my – _our_ return to the North. My people are a prickly sort, as you well know. My family too…I’ve written to them about you, but they may not understand you’re not the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror.”

Daenerys rises on her elbows, silver hair spilling down her back. “Well, once they meet me, they’ll realize I’m nothing like that. That’s what you said yourself, if you recall.”

He smiles weakly, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I did and I stand by it. I only worry…”

“Less worrying right now. We’ll have enough problems on the morrow,” she says softly and she silences him with a kiss. Jon responds, feeling a pang in his bones.

It’s not hard to make love to her. She is beautiful and her body is soft. She smells sweet too. She is a giving lover. She’s not a tyrant in bed, which he almost expected. To put it crudely, he’s fucking the mother of dragons.  Not many people can say that. And certainly he’s never been the type to count the notches in his belt, finding the entire practice disgusting. But he _is_ proud that he’s secured her concern. She trusts him. He must make sure to keep it that way.

As he kisses the slope of her neck he thinks about Theon’s words. They all think he’s doing his best. They think he never lies and always keeps his oaths. Always striving to do the right thing. But what he’s learned in the Night’s Watch and with the wildlings is that the right thing comes at a cost. Sometimes, to do the right thing you must lie, and you must break oaths. You have to decide what is more important to you; staying true to yourself, or saving millions.

He wishes he could have told Theon that, but it might’ve reached the ears of his dragon queen.

Maybe in time he will come to love her and want her in earnest. If they survive this war.

 

 

They arrive at White Harbor on a gloomy day, the sky pregnant with snow. It always is, these days. The sun rarely makes an appearance, for it can't have any hope of shining here. The town looks deserted because everyone’s staying in, away from the cold. Only a few stubborn fish mongers populate the harbor. There’s no triumphant return home. The seagulls cry out drearily in the distance. There’s still a long and weary journey to Winterfell. But at least he will see Arya, his dear sweet Arya, and Bran, his beloved brother. And he will see Sansa too. His anxiety reaches a pitch when he thinks about her. His younger siblings may trust his judgment, but Sansa will surely question his decision and feel insulted that he did not consult with her. He hopes that once he explains everything to her, she will understand. She’s grown pragmatic in the face of adversity. She’s had to deal with Cersei, when she was far too young for it. She, of all people, should sympathize.

But can he tell her _everything_?

What if he puts her at risk by sharing with her his intentions?  Daenerys must not suspect his wavering loyalties and if Sansa should act differently towards her, it would lead to suspicion and uncertainty.

They can't afford to fight among themselves. He has to choose his words carefully.

His mind is awash with these agonizing thoughts. He hopes that Sansa will remember he is still _her_   brother.

 

 

The East Gate opens with a clang. The courtyards are swarming with foreign guests. The castle is big but it certainly never had to make room for so many armies and so many newcomers. The Dothraki have set up camp around the walls, and their horses require food and water. Every Unsullied must be accounted for too. Chambers must be prepared for the Queen and her Hand, yards must be cleared up for the forging of dragon glass blades. And a lot of it falls on her, the Lady of Winterfell.

Jon feels a brackish taste in his mouth as he climbs down from his horse. It feels as if he’s back to being a child and they’re all standing outside, waiting to receive King Robert.

He is momentarily distracted by Arya, now almost a grown woman, as she runs to him with her arms wide open.

“Jon!”

"Sister!"

He lifts her up into his arms as he used to when she was little. They embrace for a long while, trying to recapture the lost years - to make up for the absence.

“Gods, I thought you were dead. Where have you been, my little warrior?”

Arya smiles sadly at him and he notes that her face is lined with crone-like wisdom and a strange coldness, the kind you see beyond the Wall. “I’ve been everywhere…and nowhere. There’s much to tell. I bet you have a story or two that would make me pause.”

He nods, wishing he could ruffle her hair like he did when she was a happy child. But he can’t do that anymore.

His encounter with Bran is stranger. Maester Wolkan has wheeled him out for the occasion but the young boy he once was is now a ponderous young man whose face betrays no emotion. He barely flinches when he sees Jon. In fact, he looks past him to the Queen who is dismounting her own horse. She is the only one with silver hair in this entire courtyard and it feels ominous.

“So, you have brought her here,” Bran says quietly in a voice that is devoid of any inflection.

“Aye,” Jon says, “I’m hoping you will get to know her.”

“I already do. And so will you,” he replies in the same sedate manner.

Jon is troubled by this queer pronouncement but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it because Daenerys puts a hand on his shoulder and demands his attention.

“Should we do the introductions, my love?”

Jon winces, though he hides the discomfort with an affectionate smile. “Best you don’t call me that in front of them yet.”

Dany smiles, wrapping her hand around his arm. “Only in private then.”

He wonders if he’ll have the strength to make love to her without shame under his father’s roof. That's when his eyes land on Sansa.

She is standing a little back from the others, inspecting the arrivals with a trained eye. He thinks that she did not come forward because she wanted to give him some moments with Arya and Bran. She’s smiling…and in fact looks very much composed. The Lady of Winterfell, unflappable in the face of foreign invasion. But there’s something about the way she won’t look in his direction that troubles him.

“My lords and ladies,” Jon starts wearily, “I return to you with a powerful and just ally who will help us in the fight against the Dead. Though she may not be of the North, we cannot save the North without her. When I was gone beyond the Wall, she flew with her dragons to save me, though she did not need to. Many who were there can attest to it. She saved my life. I will let her speak in her name, but I have no doubt you’ll agree in the end that we can only survive the Long Night united.”

Daenerys walks among them with an imperious expression. Jon knows she’s secretly nervous but will do anything to conceal it. She starts to speak, and right from the start Jon curses under his breath. Just like Missandei did once on her behalf, she enumerates her titles, arguing why she deserves them. She mentions King Robert’s betrayal, the centuries-long loyalty of the Starks to the Targaryen line, her liaison with the Dothraki, her victory in Slaver’s Bay…and her dragons. The dragons that breathe fire and melt away the White Walkers…but also melt away the flesh of men and leave charred bones in their wake. She doesn't mention this last cruel part, though she doesn't have to.

Every Northerner is staring in daft shock at this purple-eyed witch. He can see their faces are lined with panic. They seem to understand that the dragons are necessary, but not that the person who wields them should wield the North as well. It’s a good thing Jon and Tyrion persuaded her to leave her “children” at Torrhen’s Square, at least until things settle down at Winterfell.

However, it does little good when Tyrion comes forward to describe to them with great pathos Queen Daenerys’ great propensity towards mercy.  She does not ask them yet to bend the knee, oh no. She asks that they give her a _chance_. But Jon senses mistrust swirling in the air like snow. All these men see before them is a lion talking out of place in their home. It all seems rather hopeless for a moment.

“Your Grace, if I may.”

Sansa steps forward gracefully, giving a small curtsy.

Daenerys nods to her in relief. “You must be Lady Sansa.”

“I am, your Grace. And I am very grateful to you for restoring my brother and our King in the North.” She makes a small pause and turns to her people, smiling encouragingly. “We Northerners honor the custom of hospitality. We will break bread together and you shall have rest, for you must be very tired from your journey. We will surely speak again, when we have had time to settle down.”

It is just the sensible thing to say. The lords appear momentarily mollified and they all start chattering quietly among them, no doubt wondering what future discussions might entail.

Jon would like to thank her for putting in a good word, but he can’t catch her eye. Sansa obstinately refuses to look at him.

She is speaking to Tyrion now. They are both smiling, as if recounting some clever joke from many moons ago. They walk together towards the Great Keep, turning their backs on him.

 _They were married_ , Jon remembers. _Of course they would have much to talk about._

It still stings that she would rather acknowledge the dwarf than her brother. But his duty is not over. And in fact, it will never be.

He lets Dany put her arm around him again and guides her towards the Great Keep.

 

 

A small meal is served in the Great Hall. Sansa has arranged it beforehand and she made sure to diffuse tension by having Jon take the big seat on the dais with Daenerys sitting towards the end of the table. She has provided the Queen a small throne so that she does not feel offended. Her Hand is sitting by her side, while Ser Davos is positioned next to him. Arya and Bran sit at each end of the table.

It is rather perfect.

But he can’t stomach the food, and he can’t swallow his wine. He is back in his home, but he feels like a bastard and hardly a King. Despite Sansa’s best efforts, everyone is covertly staring at the foreign queen and wondering how long this apparent peace will last.

He wonders if this is how his father felt in King’s Landing, surrounded by so much intrigue, having to wear a mask all the time until his own face was unrecognizable in the mirror.

He’d like to rise to his feet and tell them that his allegiance will always be to the North, that he won’t bend the knee – but he has, in a way.

Sansa still won’t look at him.

He clenches his fist under the table.

 

 

“You didn’t write to tell me you executed Littlefinger.”

Sansa raises her head from her parchments and he catches the brief flash of alarm on her face. She was so engrossed in her book-keeping that she did not hear him enter. She buried herself in her work the moment she could leave the Great Hall.  

Jon closes the solar door behind him.

She should have locked it, she thinks now with chagrin, but he _is_ rightful King, so he has leave to come and go as he pleases. Sansa puts down the quill.

“I did not have time. I had to prepare for your arrival.”

“All the same…Arya told me what happened. How you sentenced him.”

He’s taken off his furs and road garb and he looks almost vulnerable in the weak candle light.

“Do you disapprove?” she asks, folding her hands in her lap.

“No. I believe you were right.  I knew deep down he was rotten. I’m honestly glad he’s gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to protect you…”

Sansa rises from her seat and straightens the hem of her dress. “ _Protect_ me? He couldn’t harm me.”

Jon turns his head to the side, as if blocking an image from his head. “He told me he loved you.”

She opens her mouth and closes it again - and ponders his words. She takes her time now before speaking.

“When did he tell you that?”

“He came down to the crypts before I left for Dragonstone. I was surprised he knew the way down there, but I guess I shouldn’t be. I nearly strangled him that day.”

Sansa frowns. “He was foolish to tell you that, but you shouldn’t have –”

“I was afraid he would – he would try to touch you in my absence,” he finishes with difficulty. His lips recoil, rage bubbling to the surface at the thought.

“He didn’t. I never let him. He couldn’t have done it, anyway. I have many guards here who would die protecting me.”

“They’re not family, though,” he muses gloomily.

”I had family too. Arya was an invaluable help.”

Jon smiles uneasily. “Aye, she seems quite a danger now.”

“She likes killing a little too much,” she confesses staring out the window, though she can see nothing but snow and frost. She is confused by Jon’s reaction to Littlefinger and her own ensuing anxiety. It feels as though something has shifted between them with his return. She is upset with him over his actions, but she feels a strange turmoil that has nothing to do with the foreign queen or Arya. Maybe she fears Jon has changed too much. Maybe it’s her that is so impossibly different.  

“She didn’t tell me much about her time in Braavos,” Jon continues in a stern voice, “but whatever those people did to her, whatever lesson they taught her…it can be undone. It must be undone.”

The way he says the words makes Sansa pause. “Not everything can be undone.”

She can see a shadow on her brother’s face. He takes a step forward. “Sansa, I know I should have written to you beforehand but there was no time and the Army of the Dead is marching on us –”

“Jon, please, you don’t need to explain your decisions to me. You are King and I am sure you acted wisely.” She smiles courteously, always such a perfect lady.

“You’re not displeased?”

“Why would I be?” And she smiles again, a smile as thin as the frozen surface of a lake. “You did what you thought was right, and I must abide by it. If she is your ruler, she will be mine too.”

"It's not _quite_ as simple as that -"

"She _is_ your Queen, isn't she?"

Jon wishes he could say no, but he nods miserably. He must take responsibility, always and forever. 

"That settles it then," Sansa remarks drily. 

“You didn’t meet my eye all day.”

“Oh, you’re surely mistaken. But if so, forgive me. I _have_ been rather busy. We have _many_ guests, as you can see.”

Jon swallows thickly. He would have preferred shouting and arguments. He would have preferred her to accuse and slander him. But this is far worse.

“You’ve – you’ve done a splendid job, my lady,” he says, falling back on his courtesies. “No one could have managed it better.”

“I’m glad. Does the Queen like her bedchamber? Is it warm enough? Are there enough furs?”

Jon stiffens instantly. “I wouldn’t know. I’ll have to ask her, but I’m sure she’s quite comfortable.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you’d already seen it. No matter, I will ask her over breakfast.”

Jon feels a sudden urge to grab her shoulders and pull her towards him and _make_ her speak to him in earnest. Shake the truth out of her.

“Did you find Lord Tyrion in good health?" he asks, not keeping the bite out of his voice.

“Yes,” she nods. “I was glad to see him. He said he hoped we would be good friends, just as you are with the Queen.”

Jon grits his teeth and turns away. “I’m glad to be home, at least. The South didn't suit me very well.”

Sansa stops at the door. “I’m sure you are only being modest. Good night, Jon.”

He stares at her red flaming hair, the way it seems to grow brighter even as the light dims. So many misfortunes, and it has not lost its sheen. On the contrary. The snows could bury them alive tomorrow, but he feels certain this color would resist the deathly tide. He realizes he missed this particular shade. Ygritte was kissed by fire too.

“Good night, Sansa.”

 

 

He lied. It’s a torment to be back in Winterfell when he is a stranger in his own home.

Dany lies back between the furs. “Your sister was very welcoming. I believe she’s the first person to show me such kindness.”

Jon almost wants to laugh, but he settles for a loving smile. The kind she likes best.  She’s often noted that he looks much handsomer when he doesn’t brood.

He leans against the pillows and Dany burrows her head into his chest, wrapping her hands around him possessively.

“It’s good, isn’t it? It’s a good sign,” she whispers, her eyelids fluttering shut.

Jon strokes her hair absently. He stares into the fire and feels a great hollow place where his heart should be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! i was honestly very overwhelmed and touched by all the positive response, you guys are awesome! i do wanna say that i'm mostly an amateur writer who is not always great at this words business lol, so i'm sorry if the story doesn't meet everyone's expectations, but i'll try to make it as enjoyable and interesting as possible! again, sorry in advance if i'm kind of all over the place.
> 
> also important mention: the Wall falling down hasn't happened yet. the Night King is still busy preparing his armies and his new dragon. yes, i am doing this for the sake of keeping some people at winterfell a while longer, ahem. and jaime should be on his way north already, though unlike in the show, he can't teleport from A to B in two seconds, so it will take awhile for him to arrive. all this is to say that i am pausing the bigger plot to let the smaller dramas unwind. but we'll return to the great battle before long. 
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! i hope you like this chapter!

Samwell Tarly is glad that he doesn’t have time to mourn his father and brother. He’s glad to be kept busy all day sending out ravens and parsing out the scrolls he managed to pilfer from the Citadel. If he had to think about his family, he wouldn’t stop weeping. Gilly has been an invaluable comfort to him and she’s also proven to be a sharp scholar, as it was she who made the extraordinary discovery of Rhaegar Targaryen’s secret annulment. At first, Sam didn’t want to believe anyone could do something so _heartless_ , for it meant that Rhaegar’s wife, Elia Martell, and his two living children would become bastards. Yet, the heart’s reasons are often cruel and mysterious. But he might’ve been fine with this unseemly discovery if it hadn’t led to a greater shock.

Bran Stark’s strange powers of insight were difficult enough to swallow, but to think that Jon Snow, _his_ Jon Snow, is heir to the Iron Throne…He still remembers when they were not yet grown boys in the Night’s Watch, when they still obeyed the orders of Commander Mormont, when everything was simple. 

He was very keen upon Jon’s arrival to speak to him in private and reveal to him everything they had found. His good friend would surely be _deeply_ shaken to find he was a Targaryen, but it needed to be done. He was still half-Stark thanks to his mother, Lyanna.

But Bran stopped him before he had the chance. He called him to his room the day of Jon’s return and told him they couldn’t tell the truth yet.

“Why not? You said Jon must know.”

Bran nodded grimly. “Yes, he must. But only after the Long Night is over, otherwise we stand no chance of winning.”

“What do you mean?”

The Stark boy turned to him with an all-knowing look. Sam thought he would’ve fit right in at the Citadel. “If he should discover he is Daenerys’ nephew, he will be lost."

"Lost? In what way -"

"The way _you_ are now that your father and brother are gone, even though you do not admit it."

Sam had wanted to storm out of the room. How dare he - ? He knew nothing about him.  But he clenched his fists and managed to swallow his pain. 

"There will be strife between them," the boy continued heedlessly. "He will refuse to be her lover anymore, and she will have cause to suspect him of treachery. In any case, the Night King will have an easier path to victory.”

“ _Lover_?” Sam echoed in troubled surprise. “But you mean – you’ve _seen_ them …are they really?”

Bran appeared untouched by the vulgar implications. “They have consummated their affair.”

“Oh, seven hells, that is – that’s horrible. We have to tell him! We can’t let him commit this…this unnatural act more than once.”

But by the look of Bran’s face, the act had already been repeated. Sam felt very sick to his stomach. “Jon will hate himself.”

“Yes, and we can’t have him sink into despair at a time like this,” Bran murmured, turning his gaze to the fire. “The dragon must have three heads.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “What does that even mean? Don’t you _care_ about him at all?”

But the strange boy only shook his head tersely. “We can’t interfere, Tarly.”

“Can’t interfere? You can see into the bloody past and future, pardon my expression.”

“Yes, I can, and I am not allowed to change events, or everything would be lost.  We must let them run their course. If we tell Jon now, we lose the war.”

Sam ground his teeth in exasperation. “But she is his aunt -!”

Bran shrugged, as if this was only a mild inconvenient. “Would you rather thousands upon thousands died…? In any case, Jon must break from her of his own accord.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Have you _seen_ her? She’s a great beauty. And she’s got a fiery temperament, just how Jon likes it. How is he supposed to let her go?”

Bran smiled at that, and it was strange to see such a mirthless expression on his lips. “You don’t know my cousin as well as you think.”

Sam felt troubled by this assertion. He felt he knew Jon better than he’d ever known his own family. But then…Jon had actually bent the knee, which was rather unlike him. He must have done it for very good reasons, but the old Jon would have not compromised the North. Still, the old Jon had quite literally _died_ in the Night’s Watch. So maybe Sam had to reacquaint himself with the man.

Reluctantly, he agreed with Bran that they would wait to tell him. Still, he felt very uncomfortable about this deception, or half-truth, if you will.

So now he sits quietly in his small study and makes notes on the Long Night and hopes that maybe Jon will find it in him to stay away from his aunt. Which is something he never thought he’d have to contemplate.

 _What a bloody mess_ , he thinks, with a mordant note of humor. But the humor gradually turns to sorrow, as it always does. He can't help the small sob that escapes his lips. He begins to cry quietly, the way he used to when he was at Horn Hill, when he was just a boy. 

 

 

Sansa doesn’t like the look on her sworn shield’s face. Whenever Lady Brienne is uncomfortable, it can only mean bad news. But they’re in the privacy of Lady Stark’s rooms and she can be honest with her.

“He…he declared himself for Queen Daenerys. He said the North couldn’t be neutral because he had already bent the knee to her.”

Sansa tries very hard not to poke herself with the needle. Despite the fact that she is besieged with fresh duties ever since the arrival of the Dragon Queen’s large suit, she will not ignore her daily sewing. The men and women of the North will need thick socks and surcoats if they wish to survive winter. She would make Lady Brienne pick up a needle too but she knows how clumsy she is with anything but a sword. Right now, she wishes she had a sword…

But it is more wretched disappointment than anger she feels.

“So…Cersei gave Jon the opportunity to keep the North separate, and he refused,” she concludes bitterly. Though, if anyone else were in the room, they might simply say Lady Sansa is feeling under the weather. Certainly she will not let her full feelings show.

“My lady…perhaps Jon was thinking that Cersei is not to be trusted.”

Sansa nods halfheartedly. “Of course she isn’t, but Cersei is not stupid. She knows she can’t invade the North, not until another summer comes. She would be happy to see us all die of frostbite. She doesn’t care about us, and we don’t care about her. Mutual neglect would have served us better.”

“You are shrewd, my lady,” Brienne observes with a smile.

Sansa feels a sudden shiver. Didn’t Jon say that maybe she had learned too much from the Mad Queen? She shakes her head. “Not shrewd enough. Jon decided in our stead, as he is King…or at least he used to be. Soon they will call him Warden of the North.”

Brienne bites her lip. “Queen Daenerys did not seem happy with his show of loyalty, although I think she was privately flattered. Jon said that he had made her a promise and promises must be kept.”

 Sansa’s eyes light up at that. “A promise? When did he make her this promise?”

Brienne shakes her head sadly. “I have no idea. Not even Tyrion Lannister seemed to know. He didn’t think Jon would bend the knee so quickly.”

Sansa can’t help but feel there’s something wrong with this picture. What is this business of secret promises and unaccounted decisions? She looks down at her hands. What did Littlefinger once tell her? _Clean hands, Sansa…Always make certain your hands are clean._

Someone’s hands are not clean.

 

 

Dany can’t say she likes the North very much. She has nothing against its people – she supposes they have a right to be suspicious – but the landscape is monotonous and frigid, it reminds her of the Red Waste that she crossed with such pains. She feels she is not welcomed here, not only by the natives but by the weather. Of course, it’s silly to think so. It snowed heavily long before she showed up, but the elements feel more brutal in her presence somehow. Snow is supposed to be soft to the touch, but it only pinches her. She misses the warm Red Door and her beloved lemon tree, symbols of the softer climate of Braavos. The city was no paradise, by any stretch of the imagination; there was rain and hail and often the sea spray nipped at your fingers, but it was a _friendly_   cold climate. Winterfell is antagonistic.

Even Jon has become gloomier since their arrival. He was always brooding too much for her taste, but now he seems to be weighed down by such heavy thoughts. She wishes he would share his burdens with her.  She catches him sometimes before the break of dawn, staring up at the ceiling with a dark brow. Other times he’s sitting at a small table by the window with a hand to his forehead, as if trying to block the light coming in. He thinks she is sleeping at this time. Or maybe he knows she’s awake, but he can’t bring himself to put on a smile. If only he knew how much she wants to help him chase away these nightmares.

The Long Night _is_ terrifying, but they have each other, don’t they? And they have rallied the whole kingdom for this fight. They have something worth living for. They can’t succumb to early misery.

Luckily, there is one person in this castle who seems to embody the spirit of the North in a fashion to her taste. Jon’s sister, Lady Sansa, is a lovely young woman. She is polite to a fault and a little distant, it is true, but she has been far more hospitable and sociable than anyone in this snowy realm.

Dany enjoys speaking to her at breakfast.  It is the only meal for which Lady Sansa makes an appearance in the Great Hall. She always begs forgiveness of Daenerys for not being able to sup with her, but she is duty-bound and constrained by numerous tasks. It is just as well, for Dany likes to dine alone with Missandei or Tyrion or…Jon, when he has an appetite. Still, she likes the exchange of courtesies. And Jon’s sister often shares with her details about the castle’s upkeep and fortifications, the stores they are preparing for winter, the warm garments they are sewing…It is very good to be included in such things.

Dany thinks that Lady Sansa’s friendship could be a possible door into this hostile world. If the people saw that their lady was growing close to the Dragon Queen, they might eventually come to trust her. She is to be their Queen too, and she wants her subjects to be loyal and happy with her rule.

In that respect, she has already contemplated a new alliance and she is waiting for the right time to bring it up with Lady Sansa.

 

 

They cross paths on the way to the godswood.

Sansa bows and comes forward to meet the Dragon Queen. “I was just coming back from praying.” It is a small lie. She can’t really pray anymore, she doesn’t have the patience for it, but she likes to sit there and let the silence be its own prayer. It helps.

“Oh, I did not mean to disturb…I only wanted to see the weirwood tree again,” Daenerys says with an easy smile. “Your brother was kind enough to show it to me. It is very strange and beautiful.”

“It is.” Sansa looks down quickly. Jon has taken her into the godswood. _What would Father think of –_

 _No_ , she thinks. _Stop that._

“Well,” Sansa continues, burying her small pang, “I will leave you to it, Your Grace.”

“Actually…” Daenerys trails off. “I am glad to have run into you, Lady Sansa. Would you mind walking with me?”

And so they find themselves in each other’s company, walking together towards the Great Keep as men and women around them, Unsullied or Vale men or smallfolk, carry on with their tasks.

“I wanted you to know that there is another host of Unsullied coming up on the King’s Road, but I sent a raven that they should go directly to the Wall, for I do not wish to inconvenience you more than I already have.”

“I am very grateful, Your Grace, and it is no inconvenience. All the same, I will accept your kindness.” Sansa is very much relieved. Another host of soldiers would have drained her stores for certain.

“As for my dragons…” Dany begins uncertainly.

“I know my brother has ensured that they are cared for at Torrhen’s Square,” Sansa intervenes quickly. She hates how even now she must defend his actions.

“Yes, of course, I believe he’s attached to them,” the Queen replies with the inkling of a smile. Sansa tries very hard not to be affected by such details. So what if Jon is befriending those infernal beasts? It’s for the good of the realm…supposedly.

“Jon has sent a host of wildlings for my children's protection. I will send a few Unsullied as well. It should be interesting to see them break bread together," Dany continues with a forced laugh. "But I was wondering if I might, in due time, bring one of the dragons here, at Winterfell. Just one, so that people will see they are not so dangerous." She says this quickly, knowing that she is asking something quite significant.

Sansa stumbles in her thoughts. What possible answer could she give that would not offend her? How to refuse politely but _firmly_?

The silence stretches on uncomfortably and Sansa wrings her hands helplessly until her gloves wrinkle. 

But the Queen of Dragons is not so unfeeling to leave her in suspense. So she changes tack. “We shall talk of it another time perhaps. I…actually, what I really wanted to discuss with you was your husband.”

Sansa almost halts to a stop. “My…”

Daenerys stares her directly in the eye. “Well, not your _former_ one. I know that you have been mistreated terribly at the hands of the Boltons and I am honestly glad that horrible man is dead.”

Sansa is shocked to hear her speak of this so openly, as if it were not a painful memory. Has Jon told her? Or was it someone else? She must be well-informed.

“I…thank you, Your Grace. I am glad to be a widow myself.”

“Yet you needn’t be,” Dany says softly, coming closer and taking her by the arm as they continue walking. “I know some of your pain. I have been sold to men like a brood mare since I was young, and I have suffered violence that I cannot ever forget. I have seen some of those men die, but their touch is still there.  It is ingrained in my skin. I speak so openly to you because I know you’ll understand.”

Sansa nods mutely, momentarily in awe of this silver-haired woman who has placed all her cards on the table. Sansa knows she could never be this honest. But even honesty can be a weapon in the right hands. Still, there is a proud glint in Daenerys’ eye that Sansa can’t help but admire. The Targaryens are regal in their own way.

“What I’ve learned in all my painful experience, Lady Sansa, is that good, decent men do not come often. In fact, they are as scarce as the fingers on our hands.”

Sansa smiles obligingly. “Well said, Your Grace. Although I believe you are being generous in your estimation. Ten men is quite a large number.”

Daenerys chuckles under her breath. “I like you, Lady Sansa. And I believe you might come to like me too.”

Sansa is flustered by this sudden appeal to friendship. She returns her gaze to the busy courtyards.

“In any case, Tyrion Lannister is not a bad man,” Dany adds stealthily.

For a moment, Sansa does not understand, or at least she pretends not to. For surely, her Grace could not be implying…

“I have seen you two at breakfast. You always have something to talk about. You were happy to see him when we arrived.”

Sansa clears her throat drily. “Yes…I am glad Lord Tyrion is alive and well, for he was always kind to me when the Lannisters were dishonorable. And I’ve always enjoyed his witty conversations. Given that we haven’t seen each other in such a long time, it was natural to wish to…”

Dany places a gloved hand on her arm. “You must not explain yourself to me. I am merely suggesting that you might still have a husband, and he might still have a wife. I know he cares for you.”

Sansa must remember to breathe and stand erect, she must remember her niceties...but it is proving hard.

“Ghost, to heel!” they both hear behind them.

 

 

Ghost is not being himself. Not at all.

Perhaps the animal can sense his master's misgivings. Either way, Jon has never seen him in such a withdrawn state before. The direwolf who always trailed after him and was like a second pair of eyes now skulks reluctantly in his shadow and often finds opportunity to leave him. He won’t look Jon directly in the face and when he does, his red eyes are a murky, unclear color. His appetite is weak, he barely bothers to hunt anymore and the kennel master has to feed him by force. When Jon goes to put his hand on him, Ghost does not oppose him, but there is an angry tension in his muscles that makes the hairs rise on the back of his tail. So Jon gives up petting him for a while. He thinks his old friend needs time, but he is pained either way, to find him so altered.

With Ghost down in the dumps he has lost a part of himself.

So it surprises him when the otherwise unenthusiastic wolf suddenly sprints away from his hand and runs towards the other end of the courtyard.

Straight at Sansa and Daenerys.

 

 

“Ooh, I think he likes me,” Dany chuckles, trying to pet the ungainly wolf.

But the Ghost's snout is buried in Sansa’s lower skirts.

Sansa is far too preoccupied with thoughts of Tyrion and _husband_ to do much but stroke his head absently. She looks up and meets Jon’s troubled eyes across the yard, although she is not sure whether he is staring at her or his Dragon Queen.

 


End file.
